


tell me tomorrow (i’ll wait by the window for you)

by writevale



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Love at First Sight, Multi, and bryn, basically I needed to write that three steaks scene, ep1 gavin and stacey but with our fave institute babes, gavin and stacey crossover, no knowledge of gavin and stacey necessary, whether Jon can recognise that or not, with added flesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: 'Can you believe we're going to meet tomorrow?''Only 17 hours to go.' Basira says immediately. Daisy imagines she can hear her blush, 'Not that I'm, uh, counting.'-it’s the magnus archives crossover you didn’t know you needed
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Past Jon/Georgie
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	tell me tomorrow (i’ll wait by the window for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed because, _come on_ , who could I look in the eye after asking them to read this?

'Stop it.' Daisy huffs a laugh into her phone. She is, as always, sitting alone in the tiny break room at the back of Barry Police Station, a forgotten sandwich leaving crumbs on the maps she has spread out on the table in front of her. She rarely laughs and the sound is enough to catch the attention of the other officers in the room who look over at her with barely-concealed surprise. 'Everyone's looking at me.' She says. Her colleagues abruptly return to flicking through the shitty real-life magazines that litter the plastic sofas.

Basira is sitting in her own break room, over 250 miles away, but her laugh is still rich and full in Daisy's ear, 'You've got a right dirty laugh, you know that?'

'Yeah, well. That'll be the smoking.'

'I didn't know you smoked?' There's an upwards lilt to Basira's voice. A definite invitation for Daisy to share more about herself. Even after six months, Daisy is still getting used to that. Sometimes the temptation to tease Basira is too much to ignore.

'Yeah, bad habit. But I'm going to start giving up when I'm 28 and definitely stop when I'm 30.'

There's an amused silence on the line. Daisy has several of Basira's selfies - amongst other things - saved on her phone and she can imagine the soft curve of Basira's lips twitching up into a suppressed smile. The thought sends a shock of excitement chattering through her stomach. Like butterflies, if butterflies had teeth.

She glances up at her colleagues before lowering her voice to murmur, 'Can you believe we're going to meet tomorrow?'

'Only 17 hours to go.' Basira says immediately. Daisy imagines she can hear her blush, 'Not that I'm, uh, counting.'

______________

Daisy feels her stomach sink as she crosses the road to her mother's house and sees the pottering form of their neighbour, Gertrude Robinson, step out onto the street. The woman is old and _probably_ harmless but something about her keen, dark eyes always sets Daisy's teeth on edge.

Plus, she must be the biggest gossip in Barry. That woman knows everything about everyone.

'Hello, Daisy.' She greets before Daisy can march past her.

'Alright, Gertrude. How's the eyes?' Daisy's mother had been keeping her up to date about Gertrude's eye problems. Ageing sounded _shit_ , if you asked Daisy.

'Oh,' The old woman grumbles, 'I wish they'd just pluck them out!' Daisy frowns, searching deep within herself for the 'civilian platitudes' she stored for moments like these.

'You don't mean that.'

'I do.' Gertrude insists, 'Give me that knife you've got in your sock and I'll do it myself.' Daisy blinks at her. There's just no way she can know about that. 'Are you excited for your blind date in London then?'

'It's not really a blind date -'

'- I know, I know. You met on an online forum related to the investigation of paranormal events, you've been talking for six months, you just haven't met, like. You're taking Jon with you, just in case things go South and Georgie's Coaches is taking you down there. Oh, and you're cacking yourself, you are.'

'I-'

'Alice, love. You've got to chill out.' Gertrude leans on her cane casually, ignoring the fact that she's just pulled the details seemingly straight out of Daisy's brain. It reminds her of Jon's uncanny ability to summon information out of nowhere. Creepy. 'The thing to remember is: don't go giving her nothing on the first night.'

'Ri-ight.' Daisy says, wondering if it could be physically possible for her to look less at ease with this conversation.

'Well, no. Not nothing.' Gertrude leans forward conspiratorially, 'A kiss, a cuddle. A cheeky finger? Just don't go selling her the whole farm.'

Right. Daisy clenches her fists.

' _Thanks_ , Gertrude.'

The old librarian seems satisfied that she's upset Daisy enough and she pats her on the arm before shuffling on down the street.

'See you, love.'

______________

'Oh, come on!' Basira swings her ratty blue Citroen onto the drive one handed. She groans into the phone in her other hand. 'I do know her.'

Martin Blackwood is her best friend. The platonic love of her life. But she is _far too nervous_ for any of his bullshit right now.

'Look, what's the big deal? She's bringing a mate, I'm bringing you.' Basira cuts the engine with a gasp of disgust. 'I'm not ringing her saying: text me a photo of your friend for Martin, he wants to know if he looks transphobic. It's too late now, anyway.' She sighs at Martin's anxious twittering through the phone, 'Yeah, well, if he is then there's a special circle of Hell for him. We both know that. Yeah, alright. See you later.'

Basira's eyes land on the dull orange numbers on her dashboard and her stomach lurches.

She breathes.

'Hello, darling.' Elias' voice rings out from the living room as she toes off her shoes. She tries not to laugh as she treads over the thick carpet to find him supine on the couch, cold teabags over his eyes. All things considered, some nonsense from her adopted dads is exactly what she needs to take her mind of her nerves. She doesn't need to wonder how he knew that.

'Alright, Dad?'

'No,' He starts, tone withering and dramatic, 'Not really. I'm absolutely shattered.'

'How come?' She helps herself to a glass of milk, leaning on the kitchen counter to look over at his pitiful form.

'That Pet Rescue.' He moans. Basira nearly chokes on her mouthful. The things he gets up to now he's off work. 'There was this badger, and all its litter died. And you could actually see the mother badger _crying_.' He shuffles up to a seated position and catches the teabags expertly in one hand. His eyes are as sharp and bright as always. Basira doesn't think she's ever seen him crying.

'I don't think badgers can cry, Dad.'

'Nor did I, my little princess. But I know what I saw, and it's knocked me for six.' He sighs wistfully and swings his legs off the couch with a grace that his unfair for his age. 'Still, life goes on!' He walks over to the kitchen and presses a kiss into Basira's thick, black hair. 'Your father will be home in a minute, and those steaks won't cook themselves!' 

______________

Daisy pushes her omelette around her plate dispassionately. The lecture she'd been expecting from her mother is full-flow and there is nothing stopping the tide of it.

'And will you please make sure you stay with Jon at all times? Do not let him out of your sight.'

'I don't know why you think Jon is safer than me.' Daisy says dryly, remembering the number of creeps she'd used 'reasonable force' on to keep them from going after the delightfully punchable form of her best friend.

'He's . . . Well. White boy insurance.' Her mum flounders, 'We don't know anything about Basira. She might be a paedophile!'

Daisy almost laughs, mostly in relief that she didn't say 'terrorist'. 'She wouldn't be interested in me then, would she?'

'She could be grooming you.' The creaky lock on the back door squeaks open, followed by the familiar sound of Jon's boots on the cracking linoleum. 'Anyway,' Her mum continues, 'Your Uncle Bryn's coming round with a rape alarm.'

'I am literally a police officer.' Daisy reminds her. It is sweet that her family are rallying around her like this but . . . She has killed a man before. She nods at Jon as he stalks into the dining room and takes his usual seat at the table. He's still got those dark rings under his eyes but she's vaguely relieved that he's managed to shave and put some vaguely presentable clothes on. Even if they do hang off him like he hasn't eaten in a month.

'Alright.' He says.

'Hiya, love.' Her mum greets him. 'Are you sure you don't want an omelette?'

He shakes his head, freeing some of the long hair he tries so valiantly to keep tucked behind his ears. Daisy meets his grey eyes with her blue ones. The small crease between his eyebrows disappears as he finishes reading whatever he wants to know from her.

'Where's your stuff?' Daisy asks, forcing one last mouthful of now-cold omelette down her throat. Jon pats his pockets. 'What, that's it?'

'I've got my wallet, a couple of statements and 60 Regal. What more do I need?' His voice, a smooth English patter that, even after all these years, sticks out like Penarth Pier, grates her nerves even further.

'What about your toothbrush?' She challenges. Just for the sake of it.

Jon shrugs. 'I've got tic tacs.' Daisy is about to complain about just how disgusting he has become since the stress of his new job started getting to him but her mum chooses that moment to point out Daisy's strategically packed kit bag and he groans loudly. 'Tell me you are joking. We're only going for one night!'

Perhaps she could afford not to bring the second firearm.

______________

Basira smiles down at her steak and chips as her dad, Elias, plants a kiss on the bearded cheek of her other dad, Peter, and deposits the Captain's dinner down on the table with a flourish.

'I've been looking forward to this all day long.' Peter grins up at his husband, 'You're too good to me, sweetcheeks, you are, really.'

Deep down, Basira is just glad to see that they're still getting along so well since renewing their vows. Things had gotten a bit hairy the last time Peter had to go to sea.

'Good day, Dad?' She asks Peter as Elias sweeps back to the kitchen to get his own plate.

'Yeah, not too bad, honey.' He ducks his head towards Basira, whispering low, 'I left work at two, took the boat out for a few hours on my own. Don't tell your Dad.' Basira smiles. Peter has needed his time alone for as long as she’s been under their guardianship.

'How was it?'

'Lovely,' Peter smiles at her. The afternoon on the water seems to have cleared some of the clouds from his eyes. 'I was all alone apart from the gulls -'

Elias slides into his seat and quirks an eyebrow at his husband. 'What’s that?'

'Some gulls - on the roof of next door when I got home.'

'You want to get a life, Peter. Basira doesn't want to know about the birds on next door's roof.' Elias clicks his tongue, reaching for the pepper grinder. He meets Basira's gaze with a look that's entirely too astute. 'Good job he's going out on the boat tomorrow, right, Basira?'

Basira opens her mouth to reply but both she and Peter get distracted by the absolute _mountain_ of meat on the plate across from her.

'What on Earth have you got there?' Peter sounds appalled.

'I'm on the Atkins.' Elias replies. As though that excuses the state of the meal in front of him.

'You what?'

'Atkins.' Elias tuts. 'It means, unlike you two, I'm not entitled to any carbohydrates. Vis-a-vis chips.' Basira wonders if he mispronounces the French to wind up Peter even more. Probably. She tries not to smirk. 'So, I have substituted my chips by having two extra steaks.' Her concealed smirk threatens to spill out into a giggle.

'Three steaks? Are you mad?' Peter sounds even more appalled.

'No. It's not three steaks.' Elias is holding his knife like he might just stab his ignorant husband. 'It's one steak for me, as an actual steak. One as a substitute for me chips. And one as a substitute for my peas.'

'But you're eating half a cow, man!'

'Right.' Elias all but throws his knife down on the table. 'That's it.' He folds his arms. 'I knew you'd say something. I'll starve.'

'Dad, come on!' Basira interjects.

'No, Basira. I've had enough. I've tried. God knows, I've tried.' He unfolds his arms to count on his fingers. 'I've done the lot. Pilates? Doesn't work. Can't do cabbage soup because the _Captain_ doesn't like the smell. Now, I can't have steak-'

'Oh, for the love of the Lonely-'

'Peter-'

'Dad! He's on a diet!'

'Look,' Peter reaches out a large hand towards his husband, 'I'm sorry, have the sodding steaks.' Elias twists away.

'No. And do you know why? Because you will be up at that family mansion of yours tomorrow and you'll be giving it all this.' He opens and closes his hands as though moving the mouth of a sock puppet. ' _Do you know what my husband, Elias, has last night? Do you know what my fat, disgusting husband Elias had? Three steaks!_ Then they'll scream it into the Lonely and before you know it, I'll be known as Three Steaks Bouchard. Like when I had that urine infection. Look what they called me then!'

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, face pained.

'Just eat the steaks.'

'Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?' He slips out his chair and grips the back of it. 'Well, no.' He points a finger at Peter. 'You are going to watch me starve. Prepare to watch your husband starve, potentially to death.'

An anxious, buzzing thought in the back of Basira's mind hopes that Daisy isn't this mental. She loves Elias. But she also loves Peter's patience.

They all look over towards the glass conservatory doors as they slide open.

'Basira!' Martin's voice calls through. It's a welcome antidote to the growing ridiculousness at their dining table. He joins them with a wide grin but Basira can see the lines around his mouth, the tell-tale stain of an upended cup of tea on his shirt. His mum has been playing up again.

'Hello, Martin.' Peter greets him cordially.

'Elias, you're looking wonderful!' Martin has learnt that careful flattery goes a long way with one of Basira's parents and he employs it with great effect. Elias ushers him into a seat.

'Oh, stop it. Would you like a steak?'

'Oh, is there one going?' Martin shoots Basira a questioning glance which she answers with her classic 'don't ask' side-eye.

'Due to recent events,' Elias glares at his husband pointedly, 'There happens to be three going.'

'Three? I - um - well, actually, I've not eaten today so I'd gladly take them on.' Elias slides the plate across to him with intent. Martin runs a hand through his ginger hair nervously. 'You not eating, Elias?'

'No, Martin.' Elias sighs, still looming over the table like a displeased king surveying a map of his kingdom. 'And this may be the last time you ever see me.'

'Give it a rest.' Peter snaps. Martin and Basira share another look.

'Chuck us that sauce, Basira?' Martin nods towards the ketchup and clearly decides not to ask.

______________

Daisy taps her foot under the table. Jon is regaling them with a tale about a time-waster who bothered him at work earlier but she's only half listening. She's wondering what Basira is up to. If she's just as riddled with adrenaline as Daisy feels.

'So I said to him: "Oh, scaghead, do what you like. I'm in no position to tell someone how to live their life. But don't come round here with fake statements, I have an Archive to run."'

Daisy raises an eyebrow at him through the curling cigarette smoke. 'Firstly, calling someone a scaghead in your accent counts as appropriation, Sims. Secondly, you haven't got an Archive to run.'

Jon is about to retort when the door creaks open again and the warm, Welsh tones of Daisy's Uncle Bryn float through the door.

'Only me!' He calls as he bustles through to the dining room. He's holding something inside his pocket like he has a bomb in there and he's desperate for it not to fall out. 'I got the alarm!' Daisy rolls her eyes. 'Oh, hiya, Jon!'

'Alright, Bryn?'

'How's it going down at the Archives?'

'Er, I won't lie to you, Bryn. Gertrude was an awful Head of the Archives and she's left a real mess behind.' Bryn clucks sympathetically.

'What do I owe you for that alarm, Bryn.' Daisy's mum fiddles with her purse. Jon affects a disinterested look but Daisy can tell he's dying not to laugh.

'Don't worry, this one's on me!' Bryn holds up the alarm to quell any arguments, 'Ey, these things are important. My brother would turn in his grave if he thought I wasn't looking after his little girl.' Bryn smiles down at Daisy and she absolutely doesn't think about the things she's done - even in the last week - that definitely don't award her 'little girl' status. Her dad would be rolling in his grave, that's for sure. Jon's lips twitch and Daisy kicks him under the table. 'And the truth is, I don't want anyone in this room being raped, myself included.'

'Fair play.' Jon snorts.

'Thanks, Uncle Bryn.' Daisy forces out through gritted teeth. 'But you know-?'

'Ey, now! You're always telling us that women can be rapists too!'

'That's not really-'

'Right! The man in the shop says that I should give you a little demonstration.'

'You really don't have to show me, I am a police officer.'

Bryn furrows his eyebrows, doubling down.

'Alice, tomorrow morning you are travelling to London, England, to meet a girl you've never met before. I offered to come with you. You said, "No." I offered to drive and wait in the car. You said, "No.".' Daisy looks at Jon pleadingly and the bastard says nothing, eyes sparkling. Bryn continues, 'Now, you've met me halfway on the rape alarm - at least have the decency to let me give you a demonstration because, I tell you this for nothing, if you come back on Sunday, raped, and I showed you how to use it, I'll rest easy in my bed. You come back on Sunday, raped, the fault will lie solely at your door.'

He lets his words settle. Jon takes a slow drag on his cigarette. Daisy's mum looks at her with eyes the size of dinner plates. Daisy sighs.

'So, please. Daisy, I'm not going to ask you because I don't want you to get in trouble for using force against a civilian . . . again. Jon, please, I want you to run at me as if, to all intents and purposes, you were my attacker.'

______________

After dinner, Basira and Martin make for the plastic garden furniture on the patio outside. All the better to not hear how her dads settle their steak-related differences. Basira pulls up the zip on her coat and meets her friend's green eyes, like a moss-covered rock, with a stony look of her own. Martin takes a slow drink out of his steaming mug of tea, not breaking the eye-contact.

'Not too late to back out, you know. All it takes is one phone call.'

Basira shakes her head, smiling at the swirling warmth in her stomach. She was actually meeting Daisy tomorrow. Face to face. For real.

'No, I've got to meet her. I want to meet her.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, it's exciting.'

Martin huffs at this, breath coming out as a disapproving puff of steam in the cold night air. 'Maybe it is exciting, but you know what they say about excitement?'

'What?'

'It's by the by.'

Basira almost laughs. Sometimes Martin makes it incredibly difficult to remember that he's a poet of fair talent.

'I was talking to Sasha and Tim about you. We're worried.'

She almost asks: when are you not worried? But bites her tongue. 'Why?'

'Because you're putting all your eggs in one bag. She's Welsh! She might not even turn up.' He takes another sip of tea. 'All I'm saying is, don't get your hopes up.' A prickle of annoyance runs down the back of Basira's neck.

'Since when did you become an expert on relationships? All you've ever had is a string of impossible crushes.' She picks her own mug up and sets it back down, 'Forgive me if I don't hang on your every word regarding my love life.' She watches Martin's ears go pink.

'No - I - I don't have a crush on half the guys you say I do.' 

'You're almost an avatar of the Lonely.' She counters brusquely. Then sighs, 'Look, you don't have to come. I'll go on my own.'

'You're not going on your own to meet up with two - two _Strangers_!'

'Daisy is not a stranger!'

'She might not be, but her mate could be a complete nutter!'

_Ah,_ Basira thinks, _there it is_. She reaches out to cuff Martin's shoulder.

'He won't be. Course he won't be.'

______________

Bryn's whimpers can barely be heard over the shrill screaming of the rape alarm. Jon's hands are fisted in the shorter man's tan jacket, faces inches apart, spittle flying as he growls.

'You perverted piece of-'

'Argh!' Bryn is white as a sheet. He trembles under the blazing heat of Jon's eyes.

'I know what happened on that fishing trip!'

'Put him down, Jon.' Daisy says, tone almost bored. She takes the alarm from Bryn's hand and clicks it off with a woozy beep. Jon comes back to himself quickly enough. Thank, God. He drops her Uncle with a polite cough.

'Is that the sort of thing you meant, then?'

Bryn blinks. Nods. Blinks again.

'Yes. Th-thank you, Jon.'

______________

Basira watches as the flat blandness of the countryside separating Essex and London shoots past through the train window. She's not really taking it in, mind lost in trying to picture exactly what the cloud-filtered sunlight will do to the dirty blonde of Daisy's hair. Wondering whether Daisy will be too self-conscious to hold her hand as they walk through London. 

'That is bloody beautiful!' Martin exclaims to the mostly-empty carriage.

'Yeah, it is nice.' Basira murmurs distractedly. Martin consults his sheet while she continues to gaze out of the window. Wondering how Daisy's accent will change when she's drunk.

'Ooh, you're meant to serve it three times!' He clears his throat, 'The first glass is as gentle as life, the second is as strong as love, the third is as bitter as death.' He hums softly. 'Right, well. I think you'll agree that that is easily worth an 8.5.' Martin's green eyes flicker up from his world-map of teas to Basira's dreamy consideration of the passing countryside. He frowns. 'Basira? Basira.'

'Yeah?' Her eyes flicker down to the tense way he's hovering his pen near Morocco. 'Yeah, whatever.' The pen is laid flat on the train table with a plastic _snick_.

'This was your idea!'

'What?'

'This!' Martin gestures at the map. 'You came to my house. You said "Let's try a tea from each country around the world within 12 months." I said, "You'll never do it.". You said "Come on". I said no. You said "Pleeeaase". I said "Fine".' He shakes his head at her, exasperated. 'Tim and Sasha dropped out after Belgium. I don't know where Melanie is. But you!' He folds his arms, 'Once things turned up a notch with Daisy, you've gone missing! The lights are on but everyone's gone out.' Basira knows he's going to throw out his classic threat before Martin himself even does. 'I wash my hands of you.' She wonders how many times she's heard that since high school.

'Martin . . .'

'And, if this mate of hers turns out to be an arsehole, that could be it for me and you. I'll take myself off into the Lonely and that'll be that.' She recognises the set of his shoulders from high school too, the nervous blockiness he'd adopt every time a popular girl got too close. Her stomach twists. Martin's cool gaze falls on the flask-lid of tea he'd poured for her. 'Are you drinking that? Bearing in mind that refusing a serving of this tea is the height of rudeness.'

'I'm too nervous, Martin!'

'Right.' Martin scoops it off the table with a sigh. 'Well.'

______________

Martin thinks he actually sees the moment Basira's heart stops.

Their train had got in late so Basira had almost jogged him over to Leicester Square. His work at the library and caring for his mum doesn't require quite the same aerobic capacity as police work and he's trying not to pant too obviously, cheeks pink and mouth open.

Basira stops suddenly as they make it into the square. She holds out a hand to halt Martin in his tracks as well. She's staring at a tall blonde on her phone near the low wall by Burger King. Martin has never seen her look quite so stricken. She spins towards him, brown eyes wide and panicked.

'How do I look?' She asks. Martin thinks that's rather a loaded question. But her hair is falling perfectly over her shoulders, he doesn't think he's ever seen her with a spot in his life and she could probably stab someone with her eyeliner.

'Amazing.'

'Right. Good. Right, come on.' She marches towards the blonde. Martin's heart does something gymnastic as he realises that Daisy's 'friend' is mysteriously absent.

'But where's her mate? Oi! Basira! Where's her mate?'

Basira ignores him.

'Daisy!' She calls. The woman looks up from her phone, eyes locking on Basira like she's . . . Well, Martin thinks it looks awfully like Basira is some sort of prey. He realises with another burst of panic that he never actually asked Basira just how involved Daisy was in the paranormal webs that are invisible to most. She could actually be a Stranger. A slow smile spreads across Daisy's face.

'I thought you weren't going to come.' Martin bristles at her accent even though he knew he should have expected it. He stands there, half a foot away from the two of them. Not knowing what the fuck he should be doing with his hands and panicking at the thought of having to spend an afternoon alone in the centre of London or risk essentially chaperoning two grown women on their first date.

'I'm sorry, the train got delayed.'

They just stare at each other. Smiling.

Martin would appreciate the cuteness of it all a bit more if his palms weren't so sweaty. He coughs gently, just once.

'Oh!' Basira's brown skin develops a lovely pink undertone, 'Sorry. Daisy, this is Martin.'

'Hi, Daisy. I've heard a lot about you.' Martin says and wonders if it sounds too much like he's been practising it the whole train journey down. Daisy's lips tilt into a lopsided smirk.

'Heard a lot about you, too.' She says.

'Come on your own in the end, did you?' He fails miserably at sounding casual.

'What? Oh, no. Where did he -?' She scans the crowd and spots someone approaching.

Shit.

Something in Martin's chest gives another spasmodic jiggle and he distantly wonders if the half-jogging has actually given him a heart attack. Daisy's friend is . . . Well, he looks like a combination of all the men Basira has accused him of having a crush on in the past. He brushes a lock of dark hair out of his eyes as he joins them, mouth twisted in displeasure. There's something rough about him, like he’s an English professor who's actually had to live through all the novels he's read. Martin tries to swallow but finds that his mouth has gone dry.

'This is Jonathan.' Daisy introduces. Jonathan scowls.

'Six quid for four AA batteries. They take the piss, these Cockneys.' He waves a small, plastic box at her. It reminds Martin of a walkie-talkie without the antennae, but that can't be right.

'Jon.'

'What?'

'This is Basira.'

Martin watches Jon's eyes do a cursory sweep over Basira. He already feels warm at the thought of them on his own body. The ratty, sexy book-man doesn't smile.

'Alright, Basira? How's it going?'

Basira gives Daisy a _look_ before she replies. 'Yeah, great. Er, this is Martin.' By the time Martin has decided that he can't reuse 'I've heard a lot about you', then decided it's probably fine, then settled on just saying 'nice to meet you', Jon's eyes have flicked to him and slipped away. The greeting catches in his throat.

Right.

'Right . . . Well,' Basira echoes his thoughts, 'Shall we get a drink?'

Daisy and Basira speed off, immediately deep in conversation. Their shoulders brush together as they go. Martin looks towards Jon. He considers making a joke about how well they're getting on but Jon pockets the device his hand moodily and stomps after them in silence.

Right. Martin discreetly wipes his hands on his jeans. _Right_.

______________

Basira closes her eyes just briefly as the barman turns around to start on her drinks order. Just a moment to gather herself before she turns to her right and . . .

'He's rude.'

' _Martin_. He might be shy.'

'He's _rude_.'

'Look, maybe he's just cautious around new people. What's your problem?'

'A: he's rude. B: he's rude.'

'With respect, Martin -'

'Alright, I know I can be awkward but-'

They cut their conversation short abruptly as Daisy and Jon join them at the bar. Basira forces a smile at Daisy's supposed best friend.

'Alright?' She asks, 'Anyone hungry? There must be someone you could get a snack from round here.' The change in Jon is immediate. He wheels on Daisy, eyes narrowed.

'Oh, thanks, Daisy. Thanks a lot.' He turns to Basira and Martin. She thinks she sees Martin flinch back a little. 'Let's get one thing straight, I don't do that anymore, alright? I did . . . And now I don't.' He disappears to a corner of the bar without another word.

'Jon!' Daisy calls after him.

Martin's voice is low and furious in her ear. 'What the fuck, Basira?'

______________

They must serve their spirits a lot stronger in England. Different laws or something. It would explain the hooliganism, at least.

It might also go some way to explain how he has found himself squeezed on a sticky faux-leather sofa, the length of his thighs pressed tight up against Basira's friend's. Mark?

Martin. 

They're perusing a map of the world, sloppily trying to pronounce the names of the teas Martin and Basira have supposedly sampled. Martin's breath tickles his face as he giggles. This close, Jon can see the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He hadn't noticed them at the start of the night when Martin had been sitting sulkily across from him in silence. It would have been a shame, Jon supposes, if he had never got to see them.

Daisy is . . . Somewhere. That’s fine.

A tickling sensation at the back of his eye sockets and the sudden buzz of static. He glances down at Martin's lap and sees the corner of a notebook peeking out. Martin squeaks as he grabs it. Which, in hindsight, is fair. It did sort of look like Jon was making for his crotch.

'Sorry!' Jon says, instinctively moving the notebook out of Martin's reach. Now he has the leather bound book in his hand he knows _precisely_ what it contains. The emotion in Martin' writing drips down his wrist like melting wax on the side of a candle. Love and longing and - _oh_. He looks up into Martin's eyes. 'May I?'

Martin nods. But he licks his lips first.

______________

Basira's hands slip down to Daisy's waist and - oh _fuck_. It shouldn't turn her on that Daisy is carrying a weapon.

She fists her hands in the thick cotton of Daisy's T-shirt, forcing her backwards off the dancefloor, until she's flush up against one of the pillars. The music thumps around them as they kiss. Finally, finally, Daisy does something with her mouth that isn't an obscenely attractive smirk.

'I can't believe this.' Daisy breaks the kiss to shout over the music.

'What?'

'I said: I can't believe this!'

Alcohol does make Daisy sound more Welsh. Basira grins. Pushes herself up onto her tiptoes to kiss the taller woman again.

'It's even better than I thought it would be.' Basira can tell from the half-frown Daisy gives her before that truly unstoppable smirk that she hasn't heard her. 'It's like I've known you my whole life.' She half-shouts into Daisy's ear. She feels Daisy's nails dig into her waist in response.

They kiss again. A drunk, slick slide of mouths. Basira's hands tangle in Daisy's hair. Daisy's creep lower and lower down her back as if she's seeing whether she can reach Basira's arse before a bouncer pulls them off each other.

It's not a bouncer that makes them jump apart.

______________

Daisy's foot lands in something thick and wet and she yelps, almost pushing Basira over in her haste to check whatever it is on the floor.

'Holy-' She breathes, voice lost under the persistent booming of the speakers. It's -

'Holy shit!'

While they were kissing, the entire bar has changed. What were sticky tables have become hulking and bloody machines. The dancefloor has kept its tacky white tiling but now there's a great drain in the middle to which streams of dark liquid meander in the flashing club lights. The grinding bodies of the club's patrons hang by the neck from hooks on the ceiling. Masses of faceless flesh that drip that dark liquid onto the floor. And-

'Holy fucking -'

They're still dancing.

Basira turns to her, mouthing something that Daisy can't catch under the music. She leans down and grabs a knife from her blood-soaked sock. Basira takes it with a grim look that threatens to seize Daisy's breathing completely.

'We have to get out of here!' Basira yells.

'We have to find Jon and Martin!' Daisy shouts back, scanning the writhing figures that hang from the conveyor belt on the ceiling. The fleshy forms throw off bits of muscle and yellow globules of fat as they jerk and twist to the music. It's almost too much to watch.

' _Daisy_!' Jon's voice is distant but approaching. She draws her gun. 'DAISY!'

She sees them. They've been caught by the same hooks as the dancers. Though, thankfully, it seems like it's their clothes that have been snatched up, not their skinless faces. Martin has Jon's wrist in a vice-like grip even as the Archivist wriggles like an eel on the end of a fishing line and the other is reaching down to them as they approach.

'BASIRA!' He shouts. A terrified warble that carries over the bass. 'GRAB ON TO ME!'

For a second, Daisy could swear that she can see _through_ him. Basira's own hand finds hers. Their eyes meet.

'Daisy,' She sees Basira's mouth move, 'Don't let go.'

______________

They emerge, shivering, from the Lonely into the cramped bleakness of Daisy and Jon's hotel room. For a moment they all stare at each other. The thin mist that clings to their clothes and hair has done nothing to dislodge the splattered flesh on their skin. Jon and Martin have identical rips down the backs of their jackets, a deep, oozing scratch along their backs from where the hook had almost sunk in.

The silence is thick and awkward. Jon doesn't know exactly what he could say right now that doesn't involve throwing out accusations about why, exactly, Basira was so chummy with someone who can drag people through the Lonely and escape with his glasses only a little askew and a soft, relieved smile on his face.

'I might - put the kettle on?' Martin is the first to speak. He shuffles over to the tiny kettle. 'I seem to find that it . . . Helps. Oh, there's only one mug. Ugh, why do they always do that? Even in a room for two people. The tight bastards-'

Jon feels the weight of Daisy's eyes on his hand. He looks down to see the tattered leather-bound book he had gripped tight throughout the whole ordeal.

'That.' His best friend growls. Martin's mumbling stops dead. 'Had better not be a fucking Leitner.'

Jon turns the book over in his hands. He feels a smile splitting his face, more hysterical than actually amused.

'It's Martin's poetry.'

______________

'Should I . . . Order some room service?' Basira asks the room. They've all taken turns in the awful shower and have collectively reached a sort of impasse. Basira knows exactly what she would like to happen next. But there's no clear path to take her from A to Being in Daisy's pants.

'Basira.' Jon's voice is an exasperated drawl, 'I'm not being funny, but it's half two now and we're leaving in eight hours. Even I can tell what's going to happen, who wants what. So . . . Martin and I can go . . . Sit in the bathroom while you -' He waves his hands between Basira and Daisy, cheeks a little redder than they were before.

'And they say romance is dead!' Basira jokes. Her chest fills with a kind of uncomfortable relief. She glances at Martin, who is staring across at Jon. He doesn't seem to be aware that he's biting his lip.

'Yeah . . .' Martin agrees, 'I'll see if I can clean up that wound on your back for you.'

Daisy starts to peel her t-shirt off the minute the bathroom door clicks shut. It reveals that scar on her back. Her nickname-sake. White bumps of tissue spreading outwards from a central point. Basira wants so badly to press a kiss to each petal. To feel the warm ridges of it under her tongue.

'You just going to stand there, Detective?' Daisy asks, slipping out of her jeans with a playful wriggle of her hips.

'Hm. Nope.' Basira starts on her own clothing, then pauses. 'Do you want a drink? I can go down to the bar if you want?' Daisy lies back on the double bed on the double bed as if she owns the thing. Watching Basira like a hawk.

'Basira.' She murmurs.

'We can just talk, if you like. It seems like we have a lot to talk about . . .'

Daisy sits up abruptly, a tiny crease forming across her pale, exposed stomach that probably shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. Basira wets her lips, shuffles her way onto the bed as though the look in Daisy's eyes had made her do it. Her face hovers barely inches from Daisy's and she can't stop herself from tracing her gaze down the bump of her nose to her mouth. 

From the bedside table, a shitty indie-pop song from the 2000s starts on the radio.

'Do you want to do this?' Daisy asks. Just about every fibre of Basira's being wants to do this.

'Yes.'

'Good.'

______________

The woman break apart a few minutes later as an almighty crash comes from the bathroom.

'Ow, ow, OW! MARTIN!'

‘Sorry, sorry! But Keats? KEATS?’

'OW!'

'Well! That was for saying my poetry is reminiscent of Keats!'

______________

Jon stands by the door in the morning half-light, watching Daisy pick up her pack and hover over the sleeping form of Basira.

‘Daisy,’ He whispers, ‘Don’t wake her.’

‘Why?’ Daisy doesn’t turn to look at him. There’s a tension in her shoulders. A reluctance. Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

‘I’m not being funny but you look like shit. Last night you looked cracking. Let that be the memory.’ He doesn’t mention that if they wake Basira up, Martin might also wake up. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want to speak to him, exactly. It’s just that -

He can still feel cool press of Martin’s hands on his back as he applied Daisy’s sudocream to the superficial wound there, can feel the ghost of his pale hand like a shackle around his wrist.

He barely notices Daisy scribble a note and drop it gently on the pillow next to Basira.

‘What about Martin?’ She’s fixing him with one of her more astute looks and he glowers.

‘No, leave him.’ Jon glances over at Martin’s bare chest and ruffled coppery hair. He’s a peaceful sleeper.

______________

Basira comes to with a smile. She rolls over, stretching her hand out over the rumpled cotton sheets, expecting to hit sleep-warm skin. Her hand falls off the edge of the bed and the jerk in her stomach is the feeling of a foot falling through thin air when there is one less step than expected. She pulls back and her hand lands on a scrap of paper on the otherwise empty pillow.

_Basira,_

_Sorry, didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the best night ever._

_Daisy x_

She turns the paper over.

_P.S. if you find Jon’s tape recorder lying around please could you post it over? He’s bereft without it._

She flies out of bed, haphazardly pulling on clothes as she finds them on the floor.

‘Martin!’ The man stirs. ‘Martin, wake up!’

‘Oh, God.’ He rubs his eyes and groans. ‘Oh, GOD.’ He repeats.

‘Come on.’ Basira snaps, ‘Their coach leaves in half an hour and I want to say goodbye before they go.’ Martin sits up like his body is being pulled up by invisible strings. He stares down at the tape recorder in his hands like it holds all the answers to his questions.

‘Oh, God. Basira?’

‘What?’ She starts to pack Martin’s bag for him. ‘Please hurry up.’

‘I think I’ve fallen in love.’

‘Oh, for -! Get dressed!’ 

______________

The side of the coach is cold and unyielding against Jon’s back. He needs that right now. He’s starving. He fiddles with the sharp edge of one of the statements in his pocket. This one is about a ghost train on the Island. But he’s misplaced his fucking tape recorder and the thought of reading the thing twice makes his stomach churn. He takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette.

‘Don’t suppose I can tempt you to a Chinese down mine later?’ Georgie appears out of nowhere. A well-worn leather jacket and a hopeful smile. The smoke pours out of Jon’s mouth as he sighs.

‘Look, Georgie. You can buy me all the Chinese in the world but it won’t wash and you know why.’

‘I know.’ Georgie looks at his shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.

‘You know I think you’re great. And I do miss you, I do. But The Admiral clearly doesn’t understand that when I come over, I’m not staying and I can’t keep doing that to him.’ Georgie nods sadly and puts her hand on his arm briefly before turning to help a pair of travellers with their ridiculous suitcase. 

An excited and decidedly un-Daisy like squeal erupts from next to him. He twists to see the rapidly approaching form of Basira and, of course, there’s Martin, lumbering along behind her.

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

He makes it to the coach door before Martin catches him. He’d been hoping to slip on unnoticed. No such luck. Martin’s skin seems even paler this morning, his eyes are a little puffy behind his round glasses. There’s a nervousness spiralling out of him in waves and he stares at his delicately freckled hands. Jon can almost taste it.

‘You . . . Er. You left this.’ He fumbles in his pockets and Jon feels his heart start to pound as he pulls out the missing tape recorder. He resists the urge to snatch it out of Martin’s hand. ‘I, um, it was running when I woke up. So, um, sorry if you have a few hours of me snoring.’

‘Thank you, Martin.’ He says it as though Martin is an irritating colleague who he wants out of his office as soon as possible. He wants to say something else. Something that won’t make him seem like an arsehole. But what else is there to say?

‘So,’ Martin runs a hand through his hair, leaving a few tufts sticking up at the back. Jon is seized by a sudden twitching in his fingers that urges him to make it lie flat. ‘I’ll call you?’

‘Why?’

Martin chokes like he just caught another whiff of the slaughterhouse from last night. ’Well, y’know?’

The tape recorder is almost burning a hole in Jon’s hand. He fixes Martin’s green eyes with a look. Staring at him, Jon can feel that cold creep of the Lonely, like a mist trying to curl under the collar of his shirt. He remembers how Martin’s hand had felt like the only warm place in the world as he guided him through.

______________

Basira’s heart feels as though she has swallowed a great, smooth stone and it sinks, sinks, sinks as the coach rounds a corner and is gone. She stops waving and drops her hand despondently.

‘I still have a few hours before the nursing home was gonna call me, want to go KFC?’ Martin asks and Basira barely hears him. An idea starts to form. It fizzles in her chest, eating away at that heavy ache there.

‘No.’ Basira’s feet are already pointing her in the direction of her new plan. ‘There’s something I’ve got to do . . . Taxi!’

The door to Basira’s house swings open before they’re even out of the cab. Elias Bouchard appears, a thick, green face mask applied to his cheeks.

‘Basira, Basira!’ She throws a tenner at the taxi driver and pulls out her car keys as she heads up the drive. Martin hurries out after her, his whole posture a series of unanswered questions. ‘How was it, my love?’ She spares a grin for her dad, unlocking her car door.

‘Brilliant.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘I’ll tell you when I get back!’ She gets in the car. Buckles up. Reverses.

‘Right, well, I’ll see you, then?’ Martin calls after her bitterly. He turns to shrug at Elias but Basira is already speeding down the street.

______________

The tape recorder clicks off.

‘Feeling better?’ Daisy is glad to hear that her voice is back to its usual low rumble. Jon had seen her crying, obviously, but she still didn’t want to sit there bleating like a pitiful little lamb. Jon clears his throat.

‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ He glances at her red eyes awkwardly. ‘Are you?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Good.’

‘Did you have a nice time in the end then? With Martin?’ Jon has been emotionally constipated since his teens. But he has tells. She almost feels Jon to tense in the seat next to her. That’s a yes then. She watches as he guiltily glances towards Georgie, his ex. Another yes. She smirks and he scowls.

‘Yes, my idea of a perfect evening is being trapped in an en-suite with someone who could transport you to a world without human contact and leave you there.’

‘Hm.’ Daisy says noncommittally, ‘How’s his poetry, then?’

He deigns not to answer.

______________

The coach door opens with a slowness that is usually reserved for horror films and gameshows. Basira stands a few feet away. Sweating. People start to shuffle off and she has the nauseating experience of feeling her heart soar and then sink as each one in turn is not Daisy.

Until they are.

‘What the -?’ Basira hears Daisy’s aborted gasp of confusion and then she’s bracing herself for impact as the muscled blonde pelts her way over. Basira grips her tight even as the air gets knocked out of her lungs. Daisy is laughing as she pulls back. ‘What you doing here?’

‘Well, I said I’d see you soon, didn’t I?’ Basira dearly hopes that this is romantic and not the behaviour of a stalker.

Daisy bites her lower lip and steps back. _Fuck_ , Basira thinks. For all the time they’ve spent together over the last 24 hours, Daisy has been cool, confident, untouchable (and, briefly, _very_ touchable). Now, she looks like she’s going to cry.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s stupid. . .’

‘Daisy.’

‘It’s just . . .’ She looks out towards the sea, takes a fortifying breath. ‘I know we have a lot to talk about regarding, um, important figures in our lives . . . But I told myself if I ever saw you again - in the flesh, like - then I’d tell you something but I _can’t_ . . .’ Basira’s heart thuds wildly. _Is this it?_ She thinks.

‘Oi! Daisy!’ They are interrupted by Jon’s shout. Basira could punch him. She doesn’t know what he’s done on the coach, but he looks a lot healthier for it. ‘I’m going for a curry with Georgie!’ Daisy waves a hand at him and he disappears with the coach driver. Basira has decided on a plan of action by the time Daisy turns back. Her eyes are huge and terrified.

‘If you say it, I’ll say it back.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Basira suddenly has her arms full of Daisy again, that growly laugh right in her ear. Daisy’s lips are warm and won’t stop twisting into a smirk under hers. She almost jumps out of her skin as a screeching note erupts from Daisy’s pocket.

‘What is that?!’

‘Oh,’ Daisy laughs, ‘That’s just my rape alarm.’

**Author's Note:**

> TELL ME TOMORROW, I’LL WAIT BY THE WINDOW FOR YOU [aggressive piano tinkling] 
> 
> I can only apologise. This is the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written but I really hope you liked it!!


End file.
